A fighter pilot walks in, an older man, unkempt with three days beard peppered with gray and a wrinkled flightsuit. He already has a head start on the rest of the patrons, leaning heavily on a "hospitality" girl, his arm around her shoulder and hand danging down in front of the tight red dress she wears like a uniform of her trade. The hand at the end of the arm is holding a half empty bottle of rice wine with the stopper missing. Wasabi he is called by some, Wobbly by others, and his next action is to whisper something in the girls ear then nibble at it. She responds with a giggle, the smile brightening a face that is not unpleasant but is forgetable, the perfect face for the amusement of a fighter pilot drinking off the last mission or drinking to the next. The girl slips out from under his arm and leads his staggering body by pulling his one hand with both of hers, pulling the man twice her weight as she walks backwards to a corner table where he grunts as she releases him and slips into a chair, long dress slit up the side falling off her legs with a wanton grace only this sort of girl can show. Wasabi sits down heavily next to her, sliding his chair over where it bumps against hers as she pulls out a small compact and checks her to heavy eye makeup and too red lipstick. Grabbing a dirty half full teacup from the tables last patron he throws the tea out and fills it with the Sake, then staggering back to his feet he yells Kanpai! before draining the cup in a gulp. He then reaches up and unscrews the bulb over the table, leaving him and his companion in relative darkness.